Without Him
by moonlessmondays
Summary: Regina needs to know he's okay, needs to be certain that he's alive and well, needs to be sure that he'd be there for the rest of their lives because she isn't sure she knows anymore how to live without him. OQ Post Camelot ball S'mores. Yes, OQ tastes Camelot S'mores. Okay, teeth rotting.


**I have succumbed to peer pressure. Trash Girlz Band, here's your smut. Y'all are unwilling pawns. Enjoy OQ having a taste of Camelot S'mores.**

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Her eyes never leave his, long after King Arthur has excused himself and bid them goodnight, long after the _Charmings_ and their pirate mascot have all retired for the night, as well. She is scared, her trepidation not at all unfounded, her erratically beating heart ceasing to slow down, and her fears being slow to abate even after she's been assured and reassured by himself no less that he is alive and well, ready to face another challenge with her any time, any day.

But it's hard to believe that when less than an hour ago, he had been lying on the surface, blood seeping out of his wound and his hands turning cold in her grasp as his breaths come in shallow gasps, until there were none, until life has left him and she is left to stand there, watching once more as another love is being taken away from her by the fate that had given him to her in the first place. She still remembers how frantic she felt then, in a split second feeling as though she might lose him that had her body freezing, her heart trip-hammering in her chest and her blood running cold as if a bucket of ice-cold water had been dumped over her head. It was even more painful knowing it had been the sword meant to take her life that had taken his, it had been her death that should have been.

It's still hard to digest all that even now that he's sitting not a foot away from her in her bed (they have separate bedchambers, another annoying feature in this trip back to medieval times, aside from the corsets that she had done well without for the last three decades, and would gladly do without for the rest of her years). It's hard to believe that he's here, alive and well, and breathing, grinning at her and looking at her with love in his eyes. He is there, in front of her, just right there.

"You do know I'm not going anywhere, right?" she hears him ask as he grasps her hands in his, his hands now back to their usual warmth, and his eyes staring down at her with their usual glow.

God, she could have lost this, she could have had to live again a life without someone to love and to love her back (and sure, there'd always be Henry, and now Roland too, but her love for Robin is different, that is a given).

"And you haven't lost me," he continues when she only swallows and doesn't answer, ends up staring at him with teary eyes and sniffling because she doesn't really know what to say, can't trust her voice to speak and not waver.

"I could have," she tells him quietly, unable to stop the tremble from her voice as her eyes water once more as the image of him sprawled on the floor, on the table, almost lifeless. "I could have lost you, again, only this time, there'd have been no way to bring you back."

Robin looks at her, pulls her closer until their knees are flushed, and she is of one breath with him. He cups her cheeks in his palm, and for a moment, she feels the comfort of his warm skin seeping through her and calming her frazzled nerves. But it isn't until he presses his forehead against hers that she is able to breathe, able to release the breath she hadn't even been aware she's been holding. His other arm slithers to her waist, and she inches closer, the closes that she can to him.

"Regina," he breathes, and it's not enough, not nearly enough for her, "Regina I'm here. You didn't lose me. And you aren't going to, not for a long time. I'm in this for the long haul my love."

The tears slip down her cheeks this time and she isn't able to stop them, but he is there, wiping them away with pads of his thumb, kissing her tears away. He places tiny little kisses on her cheeks, and in the back of her mind she thinks that it should be the other way around, she should be the one comforting _him_ , he'd been stabbed with a sword for goodness sakes, and he's the one calming her down.

"You could have died Robin," she says once again, as if trying to make him see her point, and she is, maybe she is, this is not be taken lightly, not really, and he needs to see that. He needs to understand the gravity of the situation—of the possibility of her losing him.

"I know that, my love," he says, placating, understanding, always understanding, "But I haven't. I'm not dead. I'm right here." He takes her hand in his and places it in his chest, much like the time at Granny's when she had not had her heart in her chest and he'd told her to use his for the both of them. They've come a long way since then.

When she opens her mouth to say something (perhaps reiterate that she might have lost him, all because he wanted to save her, and for what? For her to continue to pretend to be the savior and not know what on the bloody hell she is doing? For her to live under the guise and the pressure that she's the salvation come to save the day), he takes her in a kiss so heated it makes her limb feel like jelly, and her insides to melt. His hands both hold on to her waist now, and he pulls her closer, closer until she's sitting on his lap, straddling him, heeding no mind to the layers and layers of clothes and petticoat underneath her dress.

She wounds her arms around his neck and tilts her head into an angle, just so that the kiss goes deeper and his tongue pushes in her own mouth to seek hers and stroke, taste and suck. She feels heat pooling low in her belly, feels moisture begin to gather between her thighs, and it's a heady, heady feeling when he deepens the kiss, his hand pushing her closer to her. It has been a while since they have done this, trying to find a way to get the darkness out of Emma and trying to deal with her sister leaving very little time for such activities, but the time is here now, presenting itself to them and she'd be damned if she doesn't take it after everything that has just happened tonight.

"Regina," he pants as he pulls away from her, gasping for breath and this time for very different reasons than an hour ago.

"Robin," she whispers back just as breathily as she feels a different sensation other than guilt begin to take over. It is more than lust, although she won't deny to lusting after him when she'd seen him in his medieval clothes, seen him waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs as she arrived, when they had danced and he'd pulled her to him and kissed her, and she'd breathed him in, noticing how even in the medieval attire and different realm, her handsome thief still smells of forest.

She pulls away when she doesn't hear him speak, afraid that she might have hurt him, he'd just gotten stabbed, she needs to remind herself of that. She watches his face as he tries to compose himself, and it takes a gargantuan effort not to grind herself into his blatant desire for her.

"Robin?" she repeats herself, more inquisitive now, than lust-filled. Her eyes are wide and her eyebrow rising.

"I'm okay," he assures with a gentle squeeze of her hip. "I just need a moment to relax myself. I'm sorry…" he pauses and then bites his lip, his dimple making an appearance (and sending a jolt through her, right to her core) as he grins. "You're a desirable woman, my love. I beg your pardon."

Her face scrunches up in confusion for a moment, until everything falls into place, and she gasps quietly, because it's so like Robin—to think of her even when it was his life on the line just a few moments ago. But no, there is nothing to worry about on her end, and if he can, she'd rather feel him—which is exactly what she tells him.

"Regina, you've been through an ordeal," he says, trying to reason with her even if she can feel so keenly how much he, too, desires this.

"And so have you," she tells him as she ducks her head down and peppers kisses all over his neck, her fingers coming down to fiddle with his buttons one by one until they become loose and she slides his shirt off of his shoulders. Well, it's obvious that he wants this too, that is _not_ just a rocket in his pocket. "I could have lost you, Robin, I could have been subjected to a life without you, but I was not. You're alive, and you're here, and I want to be certain, want to be sure that you are."

He grasps her chin and tilts her head up until their eyes meet. "Are you sure, sweetheart, we don't have to," he says, asks, always wanting her to be comfortable, wanting to always make her feel like she has a choice. He always wants her to have everything and anything she might wish.

But she doesn't need anything, not really, she just needs him, wants him. "We don't have to," she agrees as she pushes him down the bed now, still straddling him, "But I want to."

It doesn't take long before he is taking her mouth once more, kissing her, tasting her, letting her know without words how grateful he is, too, to be given another chance at life to be with her, another chance to fulfill the happy ending they have been so deprived of for so long. She feels it, feels him as he pours out the love she hadn't put in words, but feels so keenly, so deeply for him. She can't tell him, can't even begin to put to words, how much it means to her that he'd sacrificed his life for her (but there are no words for it, she knows, and she can attempt to write a book about the sacrifice he's made on her behalf, but it won't ever suffice).

He rolls them over then, and thoughts flee her. He then proceeds to take of her clothes, gently, reverently, and if it takes longer than they usually do in Storybrooke, then it's not something she notices, not when he so meticulously divests her of her clothing and she does the same to him. It is akin to torture, sweet, sweet torture, but torture nevertheless, and it doesn't take her long until she's whimpering, writing underneath him, begging him to take her, love her, come inside her and make her come apart as he does so.

He isn't the one to deny her requests, never been able to say no to her, especially when she is like this, wanton, pleading, warm and supple in his arms, and so he does as she bids, pushes inside her warm, snug heat, moaning (she does too, it's a feeling that never gets old) as he feels himself becoming one with her.

This, this feeling is what he lives for—when his soul finds hers amidst the storm, when his heart finds its other half, when he feels finally, finally whole after interminable years of not knowing that he'd been incomplete.

"Regina," he rasps as he thrusts in and out of her, his hips moving in a rhythmic pattern.

She meets him, thrust for thrust, trashes her head sideways, back and forth as her nails dig into his shoulder, her legs wrapping around his waist, asking him to go deeper, harder, because, god, oh god, she's so close, just a few more and she'd be flying over to the precipice.

"Oh, yes," she groans as he spits that spot, over and over again, his thumb finding her clit and rubbing back and forth.

He needs her to come, needs to come as well, so he ducks his head and sucks her nipple in, making her gasp and release a long, loud moan, the sensation making her arch her back, and god, she needs to be more quiet, can't have the good people of the medieval times knowing of her leisurely activities with the love of her life.

"YES," she gasps out when she feels herself coming and coming, her orgasm starting out slow and then exploding and exploding, flooding her in sensations of wave like pleasure, and then he's coming right after her, his scream of pleasure muffled by her own flesh.

She breathes, or at least tries to, as he turns them over to their sides, not once pulling out from her, and she likes this, likes this feeling. She feels him wrap his arms around her and pull her closer, dropping kisses on her forehead, down to the bridge of her nose and finally landing on her lips.

"Sleep, love," he urges as he pulls the covers over their cooling bodies. She can barely even open her eyes at this point, and so when he whispers a soft "I love you" in her ears, she can barely lift her head to say it back.

But tomorrow, tomorrow, she'll say it, she'll say it because she can't let another day pass by without him knowing.

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 **A/N2: I will update LPAG sometime this week. If not tomorrow, then certainly before the week ends, I promise. Meanwhile, enjoy OQ Camelot s'mores. Tell me what you lot think :D**


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